


Warszawa

by BakerStreetMuse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gore, Inspired by Art, M/M, Murder, Porn, Possessive Hannibal, Prompt Fill, Serial Killers, This shit cray, hannibalkink, when hannibal fucks up will's life i get the weirdest boner I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerStreetMuse/pseuds/BakerStreetMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fill of this prompt: </p><p>Serial killing is a recognized artistic movement and Hannibal with his skillful murders and masterful dinners has risen to become the face of the movement. He has critics and fans and Hannibal looks down on all of them. That is until he meets Will Graham at a gallery showing and Hannibal realizes that Will is the only person who understands his work completely. He's stunned by Will's potential and tries to get him to become part of the murder movement as well. Whether or not Will caves is up to the author.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Now, I don’t want to offend you but...” 

There are few phrases in the English language, or any language at all for that matter, that set Hannibal on edge so completely and remind him so whole-heartedly of why he loves his work. The woman pauses, batting her overlong fake eyelashes once, asking him to stick out his bare ass for the slap before she so delicately delivers it. 

“You may speak freely.” He says and his consciousness of the room in it’s entirety, with its multitude of artful displays, appreciators, detractors, critics, fans, and other such utter wastes of space narrows entirely to her blue lipstick, which far extends beyond the shape of her natural lip line. They were introduced before, probably, but Hannibal does not care much for names or faces outside of very particular contexts. 

The art is in the making, not in the gawking, nor the subsequent rotting. Hannibal has been disenchanted with his latest contribution to the world of modern art since the second he decided where the final brushstroke would fall. 

“Now this piece,” The woman begins and Hannibal has to restrain himself from beginning to mentally list the probable thousands of things he would rather hear than her opinion. “This piece...” She is floundering, searching for the name of it and in respect to the tone she has set he lets her flounder for a beat before suggesting it. 

“Hieronymus.” He says and when she smiles in gratitude there is a blue stain on her front teeth. 

“It is undoubtedly flawlessly executed, which is not unsurprising from an artist of your caliber.” 

His work is bloated now. Hannibal doubts that she grasped at the true beauty of it for a millisecond. He is sure it’s purpose and meaning elude her entirely. 

“However, as a work of ekphrasis, it is lacking in a logical realization of the tacit potential at it’s roots.” 

“Are you suggesting that I misunderstand the works of Bosch?” 

“For someone who calls him by his christian name in a fifteen foot tall love letter, yes.” 

Hannibal imagines that her every thought is punctuated by an exhale of smoke and is forced to swallow his feeling of triumph when she pulls a cigarette the exact shade of her garish lipstick out of her purse. 

Hieronymus is not a love letter at all. 

It is just a thing. 

“May I be blunt with you, Mr. Lecter?” She says and as he nods he holds out a silver zippo lighter for her so that she does not have to light her own cigarette. He watches as she inhales that first breath of smoke and tries to swallow her blissful expression along with it.

“Hannibal, please.” He says and he means it. 

“Well Hannibal...where is the sex?” She asks on her third exhale and smoke claws its way out of her nostrils and floats toward the ceiling of the warehouse, which is garishly strung with human eyes like an unsightly christmas tree. 

“Sex?” 

“We are talking about the same Bosch, right? Known for his triptych of dicks, or as the suits call it, The Garden of Earthly Delights?” 

“Your way with words is inspiring.” 

“And your sexless interpretation of what is revolutionary and vastly under-appreciated for it’s surrealistic exploration of sexual deviancy is significantly less inspiring.” 

Hannibal almost likes this woman with the blue cigarette and the blue lips. He extends his perception to other pieces of her. Her white hands, her blue dress, her artfully lank unwashed mop of red, red hair. 

“I would disagree, you seem greatly inspired.” 

The woman’s nostril’s flare. “Inspired is not the word I would use!” 

“Art is a vehicle of passion. I have driven you to express passion. Your anger is inspired. I have done what it is within my power to do.” 

“And if I told you that your art is lifeless, how would you respond?” 

Under the circumstances Hannibal cannot see how such a statement can even begin to serve as criticism. 

“It is lifeless.” Says Hannibal and the woman slinks away on her too high heels with a smirk which makes him instantaneously begin to wonder how much he will regret ever having had this conversation even as he forgets her in favor of thinking of nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal had been sitting at a table by himself until the woman came by and with her departure he finds himself blissfully alone again. 

That is until he catches his agent out of the corner of is eye, dressed in a purple suit and barreling toward him at a thousand miles an hour. Hannibal wonders at the people who envy him, his work, and his lifestyle and his lip curls ever so slightly. 

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THAT WAS?” 

Hannibal imagines that if Jaque Crawford’s words were written down they would be written in capital letters only, and so they are. Hannibal doesn’t often respond to Jaque Crawford, since the man does not necessarily require your consent to have a conversation. 

“THAT WAS FREDDIE LOUNDS.” 

“...”

“OF ART/MATTER.COM.” 

Hannibal has a computer but he prefers not to use it. It forces anyone who wishes to contact him to take the time to call and in today’s digital age of convenience, it weeds out most of those who were not worthy of his time to begin with. 

Or at least he imagines it does, for the majority of those who take the time he has no desire to speak with either. 

“SHE IS THE PREMIER INDEPENDENT MURDER MOVEMENT BLOGGER IN THE REGIONAL AREA.” 

Hannibal viscerally dislikes the term ‘murder movement’. That isn’t what he does at all. 

“She wasn’t last week.” 

“WELL, LAST MONTH YOU WEREN’T THE TOAST OF THE SCENE AND LOOK AT YOU NOW, SITTING ALONE MOODILY WITH YOUR WINE CONTEMPLATING THE NATURE OF EXISTENCE IN DC’S PREMIER UNDERGROUND ART GALLERY CHOC FULL OF YOUR WORKS.” 

This place is called the Evil Minds Museum and Hannibal dislikes both the title of the gallery and what it is full of: swine. 

He had forgotten that he had taken a glass of wine however, so he supposes he can thank Jaque for that as he takes a sip. 

“NOW, IT’S ABOUT KEEPING YOU ON TOP. IN ORDER TO DO THAT YOU MUST TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID TO FREDDIE LOUNDS.” 

Hannibal will tell him. When he feels like it. He sips his wine. He smells it. It’s passable. He sips it again. 

“She told me that my art is sexless and dead.” 

Jaque looks like the capillaries are about to burst out of the whites of his eyes and explode like fireworks. Hannibal savors it. He can smell the burnt gunpowder in the air. 

“And I agreed with her.” 

Off goes the trigger and down goes Jaque Crawford. 

“GOD DAMMIT HANNIBAL!” 

Hannibal smirks into his wine and takes a sip. He does not tell Jaque Crawford that he is sure that he made a good impression on Freddie Lounds and that, that is far more important than anything his apparent works of art could do to tip the scales either way. And in any case, feuds make careers more often than talent does. 

In fact, talent is often the least important thing in any kind of fame. Fame is a series of circulated pictures and linguistic symbols and ephemeral connections detached entirely from that which they represent. 

Hannibal does not have much of a taste for any of it. He rises from the table and leaves Jaque Crawford alone and gasping as he slips into the crowd. 

While he does not much have a taste for fame, he does have a taste for the money it brings. 

He will apologize to his agent tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

The Evil Minds Museum is only one of many seeking work from Hannibal Lecter and two days later he finds both himself and his apparently highly contested Hieronymus in the city center of Philadelphia at the Modzelew Gallery, an old factory which had been converted into a performance space, sitting at a table by himself sipping on seemingly the same cup of wine. 

Admirers come, admirers go, they all say they same things. Nobody challenges Hannibal tonight. Nobody dares to in the general air of awe which seems to have swallowed the entire gallery in a foul miasma of obsequious and shallow praise. Hannibal longs to be drunk but he dare not betray himself in the presence of such lackadaisical company. 

And that’s when he sees him for the first time, the only man in the room without costume. 

Freddie Lounds with her blue lips and Jack with his purple suits are not out of place at all in the vast sea of human peacocks which titter and whine within the murder movement, seeking to prove their edges and accumulate them like scout badges. Hannibal has seen every permutation of costume imaginable and he’s only been involved in the movement a month. He’s seen everything from powdered wigs to literally winged eyeliner to old computer parts woven into hair to cod pieces to fingers dyed blue to people showing up naked and painted from head to toe. 

In his exclusively 70’s vintage three piece suits he spends most of his time hunting for in thrift shops in New England, he is almost drab in comparison, unless you look closely. Every last article of clothing he owns is specially tailored after purchase, and not a single thing he wears lacks pattern or shine or careful thought. While some of his favorite suits have cost less than thirty dollars and some of his favorite shirts less than ten, he always appears more thoughtfully adorned than the wealthiest of old world dandies ever could have been. 

It’s white on red tonight and even in a room full of people desperate for attention he pulls it out the throngs with mesmeric magnetism, tapping one if his filigree plated leather shoes against the table as he sips his wine. Word got around that he is not feeling talkative tonight about two hours in and he has been left alone since. He has been grateful for that. 

Then came the man without a costume. 

Scuffed brown shoes, ill-fitting trousers that somehow manage to not soften the blunt curves of his ass, plaid shirt buttoned up to the throat, also ill-fitting, strange tie and rumpled tweed jacket. He’s facing away from Hannibal, staring up with an obvious tense discomfort at a piece by the artist Tobias, who makes elaborate free standing frescoes out of woven vocal chords. 

His shoulders shudder and his brown hair, which has left the arena of artfully tousled and un-subconsciously plopped itself into the arena of ‘this is what I’d look like after you fucked me’. 

This-is-what-I’d-look-like-after-you-fucked-me? 

Hannibal rolls his eyes at himself and takes another sip of his wine. There is no need to be crass after all. And even without him turning around Hannibal can tell that the man is as sexually available and interested as a four year old child. The problems which occupy his waking hours extend far beyond getting off. His hand is twitching without the rest of him, over and over again, involuntary as a dog’s wagging tail. He seems to physically shrink into himself when people come too close for his comfort. In a crowded room he manages to maintain feet of space between himself and the others, like his own personal temple. 

Hannibal is puzzling his way through a probable diagnosis for the pathologically uncomfortable man with the perfect ass when a purple blur materializes at his right. 

“Evening, Jaque.” 

“HELLO HANNIBAL.” 

Hannibal feels the need to adjust the hearing aid he won’t need for decades. 

“I SEE YOU’VE FOUND MY SPECIAL GUEST.” 

“...” 

“Is he another one of your bloggers I am supposed to seduce?” 

“ACADEMIC. A DISGRACED ONE, ACTUALLY, BUT, YOU KNOW, VIVA LA RESISTANCE!” 

Jaque Crawford holds out his glass for an enthusiastic toast and Hannibal obliges him as enthusiastically as he can without beginning to feel ill. 

He is not exactly sure what they are resisting against. 

“So, why is he here?” 

“HE’S GOT THIS NEAT PARLOR TRICK WHERE HE CAN READ WORKS OF ART LIKE GYPSIES READ PALMS. I SAW HIM DO IT AT THE OPENING OF TOBIAS’ EXHIBIT IN THE ATTIC OF BREUHM’S TWO NIGHTS AGO.” 

“...Breuhm’s? The Bar in Baltimore?” 

“TOBIAS WANTS TO PUT THE MURDER MOVEMENT IN LAYMAN’S TERMS OR SOMETHING, SO HE SAYS.” 

Hannibal really hates Tobias. The murder movement is just a name. People who treat it like an actual thing run the risk of actually creating it in its entirety and Hannibal doubts he will be able to stomach the birth of their terrible child. 

“I’M TRYING TO CONVINCE HIM TO START A BLOG OF HIS OWN. HIS INSIGHT REALLY IS SOMETHING.” 

Hannibal can smell where this is going the way a shark can scent a drop of blood in the ocean. 

“SO WHEN I INTRODUCE YOU BEHAVE YOURSELF.” 

“I am always behaved.” 

“AND ALWAYS HILARIOUS.” 

Hannibal willingly toasts to that.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal feels no real need to look at any of the displayed works, especially his own. For him the art is the making. He only gets up whenever he finishes a glass of wine. Considering he can spend an hour and a half on small glass, he is more a silent fixture than a proper patron. He can find remarkably little to say to the nattering, gossiping group of people stacked between the displays in the Modzelew. 

Then his glass is empty and he finds himself smiling and nodding at those he passes as he winds his way through them all, headed toward the bar. Sometimes they fall silent around him. He hears them talk of how charming he is and silently congratulates himself as he crosses the threshold into the darkened bar. 

What Hannibal sees makes him smile for the first time in days. There is Jaque’s so insightful pet project, Will Graham, adrift and drowning in a sea of glittering and chattering patrons, keeping the equally ridiculously dressed bartender occupied. Hannibal watches him shift foot to foot, hands twitching toward the bartender with increasing desperation only to curl back up at his sides. 

Hannibal counts once. Twice. Three times before he swoops in, coming to the rescue. 

“Mihail.” Hannibal says and everyone falls silent, he swears he can physically feel their eyes widen as he places a hand on Will Graham’s shoulder, angles his body toward his, usurps his space with his usual slight smile. He can count the stars in the bartender’s eyes and he knows that their drinks will be free. 

“Mr. Lecter!” Says Mihail as if Hannibal remembered little-old-him through some great miracle, and it was not literally written on his chest. 

“Hannibal, please.” He says and the people sitting at the bar look on the verge of clapping. Will tenses impossibly under his hand. 

“Will it be another Antinori?” Asks Mihail and Hannibal nods magnanimously. 

“And for my friend as well.” 

Hannibal revels in the moment of silence. He is, of course, famously polite, and has as such set the tone of the murder movement’s entire culture. They all imagine themselves members of a macabre court, perfectly poised and unshakably decorous. It is certainly amusing. Hannibal is also, however famously removed. Everyone attends his dinners and admires his art, but he arrives at, attends, and leaves every event alone. He speaks only to those who speak to him, and is perfectly content to sit alone sipping his wine and observing. They say he is an outsider looking in, and this is what gives his art such depth and perspective. 

Hannibal loosens his grip on Will’s shoulder but does not remove his hand. 

“But of course!” Says Mihail as he busies himself. Hannibal can feel Will barely breathing. 

“I don’t like red.” He speaks as if it’s painful to vocalize thought at all, though he is undeniably confident in his dislike of red wine and Hannibal turns to get a good look at his face for the first time. 

He might be homeless or a student, carelessly unkempt and rumpled. Hannibal knows by looking at him that without his facial hair he would look every ounce the lost little boy he projects. He has the clearest blue eyes Hannibal thinks he has ever personally seen, frustratingly obscured behind thick rimmed glasses. Hannibal momentarily considers liberating them from behind those frames. He wonders if they would keep their luster were he to shelve them and put them to better use. 

Hannibal Lecter gives Will Graham a look which clearly says that he will learn to like red, and he will also enjoy the process of learning to like it. 

Will swallows and Hannibal follows the slight bulge of his adams apple as it moves beneath the milky skin of his throat. He watches as Will looks down at his feet. 

“Thank you, Mihail.” Says Hannibal as he is handed two glasses of red wine. The bartender beams. “And how much will that be?” 

“Same as last time Mr...Hannibal,” He quickly corrects. “On the house!” 

“Thank you very much.” Says Hannibal and he passes one of the glasses into Will’s hand, their fingers brush and Will’s hand shakes so severely that wine sloshes onto his skin, staining it red and catching Hannibal’s eye. He places his free hand on Will’s back and guides him from the room, to a narrow wooden staircase. 

Will pauses in front of him, rigid and hand still shaking. 

“Up you go, Will.” Says Hannibal and Will does not turn to look at him but he lets out a sigh. 

“I think the gallery’s already full.” Says Will, his voice uncertain though his thoughts are clear and incredibly accurate. Hannibal laughs a quiet laugh and settles himself a hairsbreadth away from Will’s body, which radiates uncomfortable tension. The sense of promise Hannibal can feel beneath his skin makes his breath catch. 

“Indeed it is, but one must always look ahead.”  


Will lets out a long breath and Hannibal thinks it might have been an effort at an aborted chuckle. Hannibal turns his attention back to the bar briefly as Will weighs his options. 

“Who is that?” “He came with Jaque Crawford!” “They are standing too close to be just friends!” “Who invited him?” “I think I heard his name is Grant or something?” “Grey?” “Grand?” “Grammar?” "They certainly make an...unusual pair..." 

Something sparks in Hannibal’s gut when Will puts a heavy foot on the first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know how much of this there is going to be or how often because I usually don't write things blind. 
> 
> but I am going to try and do many things with this because this fascinating prompt has literally taken me captive. 
> 
> thank you for reading my dears.


	5. Chapter 5

When they are finally alone, in the sticky-floored unused upstairs dining floor of the Modzelew, which has little more other than the two men and two tables with a chair each, Hannibal takes the liberty of rearrangement. He sets a rickety two and a half legged chair at the less worn of the tables and chooses it for himself, leaving the other for Will. He gestures for the man to sit. 

Will’s lips tighten and turn from pink to white. Hannibal can almost imagine his teeth beneath the skin, digging into flesh and staunching the flow of blood. 

Will takes a seat and they sit in silence. Hannibal watches as the lack of prying eyes on the perpetually nervous man seem to edify him and allow him to breathe at last. He, however, flushes with pleasure as this ease disappear, the younger man suddenly overly aware of Hannibal’s own gaze. 

“Mr. Graham.” He says at last and Will nearly chokes on the wine he had discontentedly started to sip, as if surprised with every little gulp that he dislikes the flavor. 

“I will not insult you by being less than perfectly frank.” Will’s eyes widen, already believing him wholeheartedly. Hannibal enjoys his eyes, open and curious when they flit up toward him, fleeting as the wings of a hummingbird. “Jaque Crawford is a man who does not waste his time. He knows what he wants and he seeks immediately to achieve it.” Hannibal has always admired that about him, while he likes literally nothing about the man. “So, what does he want with you?” 

Hannibal can tell that Will is smart, but he can also tell that communication is not easy for him. He may break him of this. He may not. Nothing is set in stone. Hannibal is a practical man. 

“I..uh...well...” Will rubs the back of his neck. He then pulls away a sweat hand and takes his wine glass, sipping it like a child tugs on a beloved blanket and grimacing at the taste. Hannibal can’t help but smile. “He wants me to look at your uhh...thing...” 

Will’s obvious disenchantment with his work slides across Hannibal like a cool breeze. He takes a small sip of his own wine, savoring the beaded drops as they evaporate on his tongue.  
“And he wants me to make a blog post about...uh, your motivations behind it.” 

“And what makes him think you know my mind so intimately?” 

Will blushes. Hannibal politely does not remark on it. 

“I used to...I used to look at crime scenes.” 

“For business or pleasure, Will?” 

Will’s face darkens and Hannibal knows that it would be almost effortless to find out immediately trough less personal avenues, but he thinks he’d rather coax it from the man himself. Jaque had told him he was an academic and Hannibal wonders if that’s what he told Jaque. 

Hannibal doubts it. Jaque is lying to him. Hannibal imagines his eyes in the bottom of a martini glass and frowns. How pedestrian of him. 

“Back when killing people was wrong I...I...” Will says no more about it and Hannibal will not push him. The fruit is not yet ripe. He watches as will sips the wine yet again and grimaces. “So, what does Jaque Crawford want from you then, Mr. Lecter?” 

“Hannibal, please.” He corrects gently and Will does not take him up on that offer. Instead his foot starts to tap. Steady as a drill. 

“Have you had the occasion to attend one of my dinners?” 

Will pales. 

“They provide the others with some small amusement.” 

It seems to happen over the span of years and all at once. Will Graham is perturbed. Indignant. Enraged. Beautiful. Burning. 

“Yeah, pin the tail on the orphan? I’ve read the papers Mr. Lecter. I know all about your dinners.” In his fury Will stands up so abruptly that he nearly knocks over the table and sends his wine glass crashing to the floor. Hannibal watches as he wrestles with his jacket. 

“Then I must insist you attend the next one.” 

Will looks as if his entire world has been thrown off of its axis and is careening heedlessly into the sun. He looks like he’s pinned between flight and fight like and insect on a board, still twitching fruitlessly. 

“What?” 

“In one week I’m having a dinner at my home in Baltimore. I must insist you attend.” 

“Why!?” 

Hannibal steps into his space swiftly and speaks lowly, one hand curled around the stem of a wine glass and another wrapped around Will’s bicep. 

“The guests have their amusements.” He says lowly and Will shivers just a little bit. “And I have mine.” And with that he unbuttons one button, at his collar, and ascends the creaking stair, leaving Will standing alone in the empty room with his shattered glass and blood-red wine caked in the filth on top of the floorboards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this fic you should thank my canadian internet boyfriend, Bluesyturtle. Because if she can write 5000 chapters of fucking pure awesome all the fucking time I can do this ok thing sometimes if it makes her happy. goddamn.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal knows very well what he is doing when the following morning he enters to the favorite coffee bar of the Murder Movement in Baltimore. 

It’s called The Injection. 

Known to generally avoid his fans and the pressures and conventions of society, like all true post-Byron artists do, obviously, he had been rumored to have been there once since his meteoric rise to the very top of the east coast intellectual and artistic elite. 

The rumors were false. The Murder Movement had only caught a glimpse of another one of their own, in a remarkably similar suit to one of Hannibal’s. 

After seeing the picture Hannibal had burned his own suit and thrown it off of the roof of his house, on a windy night so the pieces of it would hopefully drift far away. 

He basks in the silence of the ridiculously dressed people in the coffee shop as he walks toward the counter. He did not come for them, but who he did come for is there in all his glory, twitching over a macchiato. He drops it entirely when he sees Hannibal. 

“Mr. Lecter!” Splutters Franklyn Froideveaux. 

“Hannibal, please.” 

Hannibal keeps his smile cordial as the man turns blood red under his beard. He has already begun to fantasize about this particular chore being over with. Everything about the simpering barista makes Hannibal slightly nauseous. 

“I...eh...well...umm...” Says the man as the steaming macchiato drips down his fingers. Hannibal follows the liquid’s journey down those stubby digits and its as if his gaze alone reinstates life in those twitching fingers, for franklin yelps, suddenly realizing the scalding coffee on his skin. 

Hannibal watches as he runs his hands under cold water. This is particularly useful, as it affords him time. 

“Sorry!” Franklyn chants again and again. He looks so full of guilt that Hannibal wonders if he’ll kneel beside his bed, stripped to the waist once his shift ends, and chastise himself as a priest of old might have done. 

Knotted ropes fashioned in a cat-o-nine, bulbous and bruising the flesh. 

Hannibal knows he can indulge in a shiver here, so he does. 

He can indulge in anything which pleases him. 

“It’s all right.” He says. “But make mine especially strong when you’re able, if it would clear your conscience.” 

“Of course!” Franklyn nearly yells, unnecessarily shouting over the water pouring out of the faucet. “It will just be a minute.” 

Hannibal forces a small yawn and Franklyn looks as if he might have wet himself. Everyone in the coffee shop yawns. It happens in a wave of three with some stragglers. Hannibal despises them all. Cattle. 

“Long night?” Asks the barista and his voice cracks halfway through, realizing what he could possibly be implying, his own troubled and desirous psyche tricking him into a slip. 

“That would have been preferred.” Says Hannibal as wolfishly as his staid and cultured character allows. He watches Franklyn’s face carefully. He watches as the micro-expressions blossom to full blown shock as the man connects the dots. 

Hannibal imagines the blogosphere rife with gossip about his mystery man, the skittish and entirely unknown Will Graham. He can almost see the lurid and ridiculous cacophony of faceless internet bloggers flashing physically behind Franklyn’s eyes as he stands, void of reason, next to the almost overflowing sink with his stubby wet and slightly burned hands hanging dumbly by his sides. 

“I spent the night driving instead. I find myself in possession of the most dangerous thoughts.” 

Franklyn seems near to salivating. Hannibal decides to be kind. The occasional kindness keeps things interesting at least. “The sink, Franklyn.” He says and the man winces as he spins on his toes, nearly slipping as he momentarily battles the faucet. 

“Maybe I should leave you to bandage your hands? After all it is not--” 

“I would love to make you coffee!” Franklyn ejects into the taut silence and Hannibal fights the urge to eject everything he has eaten in the past forty years onto the floor. 

“Please let me make you coffee!” 

“If you insist, Franklyn.” 

Franklyn very much does. He does not let Hannibal Lecter pay for his coffee either. Hannibal contemplates the benefits of staying on top of the Murder Movement, as it saves him a significant sum on drinks. He says a cordial goodbye and walks out of the coffee shop. 

Hannibal indulges in a grin as he climbs into his black 1935 Lancia Augusta Berlina and straightens his oxblood suit. He starts her up and drives out of the car park. He takes a sip of his coffee and pauses, halfway into the street, to pour it all out. He keeps the cup and lid with him however, mindful not to litter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE YOU HAPPY NOW BLUESY Q??? 
> 
> ARE YE SATISFIED?!?!?!


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal remembers the days when a day at the office meant appointment after appointment, sitting in his chair and marveling at the height of banality which the human race has accomplished. 

These days a day at the office is entirely different. He had left his house in midmorning, having slept in and skipped everything other than a shower, and headed to his studio. He left his front door unlocked for the caterers and maids, but he always leaves his door unlocked and sometimes even open. 

Hannibal always hopes that someone will steal something from him and in this, like most things, his is consistently disappointed. 

His day at the office largely consisted of agitatedly stripping his three piece suit, a lavender pinstripe number, which he wears even now, off entirely, throwing it in the corner of his studio, kicking everything remotely related to any kind of art to the side, and doing the angriest and most prolonged set of Ashtanga Vinyasa Yoga that the world has probably ever seen. 

He twisted and twined himself gracefully and with unnecessary force, his muscles straining in stark relief beneath his skin as sweat dripped down his body. The idea that Will Graham was going to come to him tonight swirled in the dregs of his thoughts, sinuous and insistent and he twisted as though he could bodily squeeze the anticipation out of himself. 

As he stood on his hands, taking time in the flow of the vinyasa to sway like a pendulum a hairsbreadth from scraping against the meat of a palm, he thought of Will Graham’s eyes, eternally lamplit and wary and grimaced at himself. 

As Hannibal spread his legs and arms, pressing his chest to the wooden floor and feeling the light chill of it prick his sensitive skin and press the hairs there momentarily flat, he thought of Will Graham’s strange way of standing, as if he’s wrapped in a wool sweater that is constantly rubbing him raw and must not breathe too deeply lest he chafes. Hannibal had bit his own lip and, with a great contemplated delicacy, slammed his forehead against the sweat-slick floor. 

He growled as he finished the vinyasa only to begin again.

As Hannibal lay on the floor of his studio exhausted and panting he found himself inexplicably reminded that Will Graham would come to his home tonight, as a guest, for dinner, to see him, and clenched his fists as he peeled himself skyward. 

The shower he took in the bathroom of his studio was also almost remarkably angry. Hannibal tore at his hair and scratched at his skin as he washed himself. He stepped out of the shower looking rather like there had been someone in there with him.

“HANNIBAL!” 

Hannibal is torn from his reminiscence of his own flesh, pinked from his shower and lacerated with a roadmap of scratches, in the fog of his bathroom mirror, by the ever enthusiastic Jaque Crawford. 

“Evening, Jaque.” 

“LOVE THE FEATHER.” 

Hannibal is wearing a trilby custom made to match his lavender pinstripe three piece suit. A large turquoise plume he ripped off of a pirate hat he saw in a halloween store and walked out with is pinned to the band circling the base of the hat with a snake eyed brooch. 

“Thank you, Jaque. Are you enjoying yourself?” 

Hannibal sees no reason why he shouldn’t be. The food is plentiful and free and people literally trip over themselves getting over to Hannibal’s whenever he throws a party. Whether that is out of enthusiasm or the cumbersome nature of their ridiculous costumes Hannibal cannot readily say. 

“OF COURSE! AND YOU SEEM TO BE ASWELL!” 

Hannibal feels his lip want to curl and distaste and stops himself. Of course. Tonight his usual policy of disinterested half-observation will not do at all. When Will comes he must appear very busy. When Will comes he must be made to wait his turn. He must be uncomfortable and off-kilter and remember why he needs Hannibal. 

Hannibal sips from his glass of wine and allows himself a small smile. To admit to enjoying anything would be out of character. “How is Bella?” He asks and Jack let’s out a long low laugh and Hannibal watches as everyone in the party shifts toward them slightly, their eyes on Jaque, jealous that he is close enough with Hannibal to partake of his humor. 

Hannibal permits himself a small shrug. 

“LOOK AT YOU! BREAKING OUT THE SMALL TALK!” 

“And the fine china, I had hoped you might notice.” 

Jaque laughs again and a few of the people near them laugh because they feel like they should, though they are most likely only semi-aware of the contents of their very uninteresting exchange. Hannibal hates them. 

“BELLA IS BELLA! EARLY TO BED! EARLY TO RISE!” 

Hannibal can see that Jaque means none of that. Jaque shifts on his feet and while his boisterous exuberance never rings particularly true, it rings even less so when he talks about his wife. 

“That’s good to hear.” Says Hannibal. He doesn’t really care. “You should bring her to my next...” Hannibal trails off, listlessly gesturing in the vague direction of the bodies littering his dining room. Knowing that Jaque knows his meaning. 

“FEELING UNINSPIRED? HOPING SEEING SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL WILL TAKE THE EDGE OFF?” 

Hannibal hates Jaque Crawford too. 

“Your wife is quite the feast for the eyes.” Says Hannibal as he attempts to take a sip from his wineglass only to find it empty. He frowns. “If you’ll excuse me, Jaque.” He says and slips away, heading for his wine cellar. He would not even touch the wine he has provided for his guests. 

Guests mill about, dressed in everything from wreathes of horns, to dresses of dried flowers, to the insides of amps and old computers, and Hannibal deftly sidesteps and avoids them all, leaving the decorated part of the house, with its dust and recently applied stains, to the orderly and clean side, which reflects his usual tastes. 

His clock, made of polished human bones, displays midnight on the tip of a repurposed forefinger. 

Where is Will Graham? 

Hannibal enters his wine cellar, neat and compact and bursting with expensive wines, and pulls one at random, his fingers clenching white and vice-like around it’s neck. 

Where is Will Graham? 

Hannibal stands in his off-white room with its off-white walls. The walls are sparsely decorated with violently twisted sculptures of the perverted human form and there are long low tables with trinkets atop them. He uncorks the bottle and begins to pour it into his glass. It seems impossibly loud in the quiet little room. The bone clock ticks. 

Where is Will Graham? 

“That would do nicely.” Says Hannibal stiffly and hurls his wineglass at the clock, staining the off-white room a shocking red. He slams the bottle into one of the low tables, shattering it and sending wine cascading off of the table and onto the floor. 

Hannibal takes measured breaths as he steps away from the wreckage and starts sucking droplets of wine off of his fingers. 

He finds the wine tastes like ash in his mouth and spits it onto the wall as he exits the room and ventures back into his own party, screwing a look of polite disinterest back onto his face. 

When two passes and nearly everyone has gone but Jaque Crawford, a few stragglers, and a woman in a sheer neon green toga who passed out drunk on his kitchen floor, Hannibal is livid. 

He can no longer deny that Will Graham is not coming. 

“WANT ME TO TAKE CARE OF THE STRAGGLERS?” Asks Jaque and Hannibal nods. 

“Leave her, though.” He says and Jaque’s grin is almost maniacal. 

“A NEW PIECE!?” 

Hannibal presses his fingers to his lips. “Goodnight, Jaque.” He says with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i wrote a fucking chapter its been like 20 years you probably thought i was fucking dead how's it going


	8. Chapter 8

The pendulum swings in Will’s mind, expanding and contracting in tandem until it swells to encompass his universe.

He stands in the middle of a sparse kitchen, clearly as bindingly as clean and sterile as an operating theater beneath an artificial layer of extraordinarily pretentious dishevelment. There’s been easily removable stains worked into the cabinets, floor, and walls. There is a human hand in the sink, laying in the middle of a pile of dirty dishes and forks, flecked with dried blood. It smells foul. Flies buzz around it. Will’s nose twitches. There is no doubt in his mind that the hand had once belonged to a person. It is not a work of fiction, a false bit of decoration. It had been ripped from a person’s body. Will scowls as he pads across the grey tile, turned rusty in spots with blood. His heart beats in his throat. 

On the floor lies a woman, beautiful and young. She’s draped in a sheer lime green frock, belted with something spiked and ivory and red and...Will recognizes it as repurposed bits of pepsi can, cut into pieces and redistributed into a long strip of mosaic. Her nipples are peaked and dark beneath the green of her frock and her make up is still almost pristine, even though a crude surgical incision spans her torso. She was cut open, died, and then sewn back together. 

In a second Will no longer stands in the kitchen of Hannibal Lecter, but in the woods outside Baltimore, where a naked dead woman is pinned between two trees, decorated in green and trimmed with incisions like a christmas tree. 

“Why am I here?” What Will means as growl comes out more like an annoyed wine and he crossed his arms, momentarily disgusted with himself. 

“WHY DID YOU AGREE TO COME?” Jaque returns and after a stilted sort of stare-down. Will relents in seconds, coming up with nothing he wants to admit. 

“I WANT TO BORROW YOUR IMAGINATION.” Exclaims Jaque, wrapped in burgundy fur and a blazing confident smile. 

“And for what exactly? Refusing to imagine that the assholes you represent are more than psychopaths lost me a job and a house and an entire life. I hate all of this. I’m not going to help you fetishize it.” Will was adamant, even as Jaque circled him, dwarfing him in size and energy. 

“That’s not what I was told.” Says the man, his voice dropping below a near shout for the first time in Will’s experience. Will feels his hackles rise. He’s about to see the man beneath the bluster, he knows. “You were a special investigator, before this shit was art they’d pay you to crawl inside the minds of the people holding the paint brush and figure out what was next on the agenda.” 

“Who the hell told you that!?” Will was furious. He had worked four cases in seven years, and it had been extraordinarily hush hush. He wasn’t supposed to have worked them in the first place. 

“Do you make a habit of crossing dangerous men, Will?” Jaque asks and it seems almost casual, but his strategic and domineering lean into the other man’s space says everything. “Obviously with your choice in occupation, I would have to go with a whopping ‘HELL YES’!” 

The switch between quiet intimidating Jaque Crawford and disarmingly boisterous Jaque Crawford gives Will whip lash. It rolls through him like fire and ice. Burning and chilling in tandem as the man gestures openly and with languorous abandon before dropping the act yet again. 

“You’ve already pissed off Hannibal Lecter.” He nearly whispers. “I don’t know how or why, when he hates everyone and you dress like an Ice Road Truckers reject, but he’s crushing on you so hard he’s practically sprouting pig tails.” 

“W-what!?” Will splutters. 

“Yeah, and when you didn’t come to his party, oooooh, did that make HIM POUTY.” Jaque points to the dead woman with his entire arms and Will feels guilt begin to sluice around inside him. He doesn’t want to feel responsible for anymore death. 

“If you already know why he’s done this, what do you need me for? Want me to break his heart so he rips my arms off and makes a modern day Venus De Milo out of me? What’s your game Jaque?” 

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT YOU DO!” The man booms and it echoes in the quiet forest. Will pictures a flock, scattering in fear at sound. “Indulge his apparent latent gay lumberjack fantasies, or don’t. What you will do, is tell me what he’s going to do next, and why. The Hannibal Lecter brand is my breadwinner, and despite Hannibal’s best efforts, it will stay that way. I’ll make sure of it. And if you do as I say, you’ll get to cash in a little slice.” 

Will looks between Jaque and the body. 

“By tomorrow at midnight I want your thoughts on this display emailed to me. Once I’ve checked it out and corrected it I’ll post it on your blog and alert the police. I’ll send you an assignment every few days. All must be 4-500 words. Got it? I’ll give you 600 in cash per assignment. Fuck with me and Hannibal’s little obsession will be the least of your problems. Understood?” 

Will nods. It’s not enough. Jaque is waiting. “Understood.” He parrots and Jaque beams. 

“EXCELLENT! AND REMEMBER! THESE PEOPLE ARE ARTISTS! THEY ARE REVOLUTIONARIES! OH WOW! I TRUST YOU REMEMBER THE WAY BACK!?” And with that Jaque Crawford strides purposefully away, leaving Will and the corpse. 

“Well fuck.” Says Will Graham succinctly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh hey guys so its been like five months somehow uhhh i'm sorry i'm such a dick


End file.
